


All Aboard!

by Diana Williams (dkwilliams)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Train Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/Diana%20Williams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The slash train is leaving the station!</p><p>An Erotic Travelogue crossing Four Compartments and Four Versions of Holmes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Compartment One: Engineering a Honemoon

**Author's Note:**

> For the Downey segment, I have taken liberties on how Holmes & Watson are reunited since it hasn't been filmed yet. I have also taken liberties on the death of a secondary character.
> 
> For the BBC segment, I have ignored a secondary character and/or set this in an alternate time-line.

Since his return to London the previous year, my dear friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes, had been busier than ever before in our association.  While this was of some benefit to our household finances, it had taken its inevitable toll on the Great Man at last.  He had been working non-stop for weeks on a series of cases when he unexpectedly collapsed at the end of a chase. Alarmed, I bundled him into a hansom cab and brought him home where I could examine him properly. I was relieved to discern that it was nothing more than exhaustion, brought on by too much work and not enough sleep or food, and not made any better by the beastly weather we’d been experiencing over the past month. However, I worried that in his weakened state, he might develop one of those debilitating coughs he was prone to, so I prescribed an extended rest for him. Holmes submitted with his usual ill grace, and I braced myself for a few weeks of bad-temper. I feared that he would resort to his usual bad habits of morphine or cocaine, which would not help his weakened condition. I contemplated taking him to a warmer clime for a week or so, and cast about in my mind for a way to bring this about without overtaxing our purses.  
  
To my great surprise, I returned from a visit to my club on the afternoon of the third day of Holmes’s enforced rest to find him throwing a familiar looking bag into a waiting cab. Another bag, one that I recognized as my own, sat on the curb next to his feet. Holmes greeted me with more cheer than I had seen in many days, pushing me into the cab and jumping in beside me as he instructed the driver to take us “to Victoria Station, my good man, and be quick about it!”  
  
“What the devil is going on?” I demanded of Holmes, prepared to be difficult if Holmes was about to drag us off on another case.  
  
To my surprise, Holmes leaned forward and kissed me, a brief and nearly chaste salute, before he sat back. “A holiday trip abroad, Watson. First class train passages from London to Venice.”  
  
“Venice!” I echoed. Visions of sunshine briefly danced before my eyes before I protested, “Holmes, how can we possibly – “  
  
“A gift from our latest client, Lady Augusta,” he replied.  
  
He had no time to say more for we had arrived at Victoria Station and had to dash for our train. We just barely made it onboard our train before it pulled out of the station, and we collapsed into the seats of our first class compartment still gasping for breath.  
  
Once he had caught his breath, Holmes continued his explanation. “Lady Augusta sent the tickets 'round this morning, shortly after you left for your club. Now that her intended husband has been proven a bigamist, she no longer has need of them.”  
  
“Ah, her wedding trip?”  
  
A smile danced over his lips briefly before disappearing as he shrugged. “She finds herself disinclined to travel at the moment, and begged us to make use of them.  The arrangements are already made and paid for.”  He pulled an envelope from his pocket, handing it to me.  
  
I scanned the brief note enclosed with a bundle of tickets and receipts, seeing that it was as he had said. Tickets from London to Paris, and then from Paris to Venice via the Orient Express, then a suite at an elegant hotel for two weeks, with return passages after that. It was an incredibly generous gift; I should have protested, but the chance to get Holmes to a warmer climate for a few weeks was too tempting. Also, I couldn’t help remembering our previous trip abroad, our plans to continue south to Italy that had been so terribly interrupted four years earlier.  
  
Holmes must have read something of this on my face for a sympathetic look crossed his. “My dear Watson!” He quickly stood up, secured the door and drew the blinds, then sat down on the seat next to me. He took my face between his hands and bestowed one of his rare kisses on me again, this one lingering and full of promise, before he drew back. This time his smile was wicked, and my heart began to race in response. “I do believe that you are owed a honeymoon trip, my dear John,” he added, referring to our newly-changed relationship. “Beginning now.”  
  
Saying that, he slid to the floor before me and his dexterous fingers made quick work of my flies, drawing forth my member before I had a chance to draw breath in protest. And then any thought of stopping him flew out of my head along with any coherent thought as Holmes proceeded to lavish his considerable attention upon my person. His mouth was hot and heavenly, and his hands as skilled at playing my body as they were with his violin. In a shockingly short time, I was spilling my essence into his mouth while I bit my own hand to silence my cries of completion.  
  
I collapsed weakly against the corner of my seat, trying to regain my senses, barely aware that Holmes was tidying me back into my trousers and rising to his feet. This brought my attention to his own need, and I reached for him. He stilled my questing hands, however, turning to unlock the door and open the blind as he uttered the words, “The conductor is coming.”  
  
Then he turned back to me, bending over to murmur in my ear as he extracted the tickets from my unresisting hands. “I prefer to wait for my turn tonight, and to make use of the salve tucked into your case.”  
  
I felt a stirring of renewed interest in my loins and turned towards the window to hide the sudden flush of my face.  
  
The night could not come soon enough.

 


	2. Compartment Two: Shadows in the Sleeping Car

The door to the train compartment assigned to Dr. John Watson clicked open under my skillful application of one of the lock picks in my kit, and I slipped into the darkness interior before once more securing the door. I didn’t dare risk a light but I hardly needed one. John Watson’s habits were intimately familiar to me from many years of joint lodging, even though it had been nearly three years since I had seen him last.  I was easily able to navigate around his belongings and settle into the seat by the window, sinking back into its shadows.  I drew the blinds; at this point, so near the end and so close to my destination, it would be foolish to allow those hunting me to scent my location. It was beyond foolish to be here at all, but when I had caught sight of John Watson - by purest chance! - in the train station in Paris, I could no more resist attempting this meeting than I could stop drawing in breath. He looked – old.   
  
Well, of course he was – we both were! Three years older than our last trip aboard this train, heading away from London instead of now towards it. He had been newly married, on his wedding trip, and I had been escaping from my enemies. And now his Mary was gone, taken in childbirth a year earlier, and it was nearly time for me to return from my empty grave.  
  
But first, before I made my appearance back in London, I had to determine where I stood in relation to John Watson. I had already decided, before his marriage, that the loss of his companionship at Baker Street was intolerable, and I would sooner remain in exile abroad than endure that again.  
  
My dark thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of his footsteps in the corridor outside. As I had observed earlier, his limp had returned, his step slower and heavier than I had ever known it. His key turned in the lock, the door opened, and I had a moment to observe him silhouetted against the light of the corridor behind him before he shut the door and locked it behind him. He took another step forward, reaching into his pocket, and I barely had a moment to draw breath before the muzzle of a gun was pressed against my forehead.  I was impressed; he hadn’t lost his sharp instincts during the intervening years.  
  
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” he growled.  
  
I had missed that growl. (I had heard it often enough, usually following his discovery of whatever experiment I had performed on Gladstone.) I only realized a moment later, when I heard his sudden in-drawn breath, that I had said that out loud.  
  
He turned away, lighting a match and then the gas lamp above the sink. While he did this, I stood and tried to prepare myself for what would happen next, images flicking through my mind with lightening speed.  
  
(79% probability that he would punch me in the face again, his hand tightening into a fist just before he struck my cheek [and a 9% possibility that he would decide to break my nose instead]. I could lean my head to the right approximately 39 degrees and avoid it, but Watson deserved his revenge.)  
  
(18% possibility that he would turn around, unlock the door, and go back down the corridor to the dining car. 95% possibility that if he did, he would get drunk and _then_ punch me if I followed him, 5% that he would ignore me and I would never see him again once we got off this train. )  
  
(3% possibility that he would level the gun again and put a bullet in my heart, followed by one to his own head. 1% possibility that I could be quick enough to knock the gun away, discharging it into the wall and possibly striking the occupant of the next compartment, fatally.  A new possibility: John Watson dangling at the end of a rope, a reality instead of a madman’s trick…)  
  
I shook my head quickly, to banish increasingly dismal scenarios, and was thus unprepared as Watson turned back to me, grasped my face between his hands, and kissed my lips.  
  
 _Then_ he punched me.  
  
“You great bloody idiot,” he growled. “I began to think that you were never coming back.”  
  
As I lay on the small floor of the compartment, massaging my aching jaw (he had clearly pulled his blow) while watching him systematically remove his coat and waistcoat, I realized that I had once again miscalculated my Watson.   
  
He paused midway through unbuttoning his shirt and quirked an eyebrow at me, and I found myself laughing despite my aching jaw (and the suspicion that I had at least one loose tooth).  And then I began shedding my borrowed uniform as quickly as I could.  
  
John Watson isn’t the only one with a few surprises up his sleeves.

 


	3. Compartment Three: Dining on Danger

The first thing that John Watson realized was that his arms and ankles were tied and his head ached from where someone had hit him.  
  
The second thing that he realized was that Sherlock was lying just a few inches away from him and that, thank Christ!, he was starting to moan as he recovered consciousness.  
  
The third thing he realized was that the ground under them was moving.

  
  
That knowledge was enough to make him finish coming around. He managed to roll onto his belly and then shifted onto his knees and got his head up enough to look around. There was  a bar in front of him, fully stocked with drinks and glasses and - yes! - a little knife for slicing fruit bits for fancy drinks. He stayed still for another moment, long enough to determine that they were alone, then began inching his way towards the shelf with the knife.  Fortunately, whoever tied him up had tied his hands in front, and he was able to slice open the ropes with only a few minor nicks. He cut the rope away from his feet, then freed Sherlock as well, who was coming around slower than John would like.   
  
“Sherlock?” he murmured, keeping his voice low in case the bad guys were lurking somewhere nearby.   
  
“John.” Sherlock blinked his eyes open fully, and John was relieved to see the spark in those eyes that said that he was firing on (almost) all cylinders.     
  
“Where are we?” John asked.  
  
“One of the northern rail lines.” Sherlock grimaced as he sat up and gingerly felt the back of his head.“The angle of light through those windows, the distinctive rhythm of the rails, the decor of the room distinctive of the British Pullman- obvious."

 _Well, that explained the movement under foot,_ John thought.  “Brilliant,” he murmured. "What's their plan, then?"

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and prowled around the dining car, glancing out the windows and then at the accessories on the bar.  “The Northern Belle Railway," he muttered.  "The excursion from Preston to Loch Lomond.  Why this particular excursion - oh! Of course!"  He swung around, rapidly firing off his deductions to John.  "Woodley has a cousin who now works for Trossachs National Park but he was a member of the clergy before he was defrocked or barred or whatever they call it.  His object in abducting Ms. Smith was _not_ ransom but matrimony, despite her objections."

John blew out a relieved breath. “Then you believe she’s still alive?”

“Of course," Sherlock said crisply. "Woodley would hardly go to all this trouble if she were dead.  We are intended to be leverage to secure her agreement to the marriage, then no doubt we will be disposed of in one of the remote areas of the park.”

"And her stalker? Was he involved in her abduction?"

"Only peripherally.  It was her trainer, Carruthers, in disguise."

" _What?_ " John gaped.  "But - Sherlock, Carruthers is dead!"

"I imagine that he had a falling out with Woodley.  It was Carruthers's idea to begin with, but he had a change of heart - or rather, he became enamored of his protege and jealous at the thought of her with another.  He tried to stop the scheme but Woodley had his eyes on Violet Smith's fortune and Carruthers was in the way."

John grimaced.  “But what’s to stop her from divorcing Woodley afterward and turning him into the police? “  
  
“Violet Smith is a favorite for the gold in the Women's road race next summer, and they’re hoping she won’t want to risk a scandal with her at the center. The loss of endorsements alone could be enormous; they are gambling that she will agree to a quiet divorce with a big settlement.”  
  
“So – what do we do now?” John asked. “Do we go looking for them or wait here?”  
  
“We wait,” Sherlock said decisively. “Too many places to hide her on a train this size, but they’ll have to come back here for us." He smiled wolfishly.  "They won’t be expecting _us_ to be waiting for _them_.”  
  
John grinned, feeling his blood start surging at the thought of the fight to come. “So we got, what, an hour to kill?”  
  
“Something like that.”

 

Sherlock loved to see that look in John’s eyes, the look that said “danger” and “fight or flight” (And he knew which John would choose.) He reached out and pulled John close, snogging him thoroughly.   
  
John participated willingly, only pulling back after a moment to say, “Is this really appropriate, considering?”  
  
“Not at all,” Sherlock said promptly, reeling John back in for another kiss and deftly undoing the front of his trousers. “Definitely not good. And probably dangerous.”  
  
“Oh, good,” John said, grinning as he pushed up Sherlock’s shirt and pinched an exposed nipple. Sherlock gasped and renewed his attack on John’s trousers, pushing them down to his knees followed by his own. John wrapped an arm around him, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss that also brought their cocks into alignment. Both men groaned, then began moving in concerted unison – as always. John could feel the white-hot intensity begin to build in his balls and tightened his hold on Sherlock as he rocked up into him harder. Sherlock groaned and came, followed a moment later by John, before they both collapsed on their backs on the floor.  
  
They lay together for a few long moments, gasping for breath and enjoying the after-glow. Finally, with a sigh, John shifted enough to reach the damp bar cloths. They cleaned up as best they could and straightened their clothes, then took their places and waited for Woodley and his men to turn up with their stolen cyclist.   
  
There would be time for more later, back home at Baker Street.  
  



	4. Compartment Four: A Little Red (Caboose)

Greg Lestrade slammed the door of the black car and stomped across the empty train station platform, swung himself up the stairs of the train car, and glared at the man sitting inside.  
  
“The next time you have your people abduct me off the streets – in the middle of a case! – would you at least have them give me a cuppa and a sarnie? Christ, I was looking forward to take-away and a beer in front of bad telly, not one of your interrogations!”  
  
Mycroft Holmes blinked at him. “I apologize, Detective Inspector. I am afraid I don’t have a ‘sarnie’, but there is a rather nice consommé prepared.” He turned and gestured towards the table behind him. “Won’t you have a seat?”  
  
Lestrade gaped at the table behind the older Holmes brother, laid with a crisp white tablecloth and sparkling with crystal and silver. “I – “ There was a delicious aroma in the air and he turned his head, following the scent like a hound after a fox. “Is that steak?”  
  
A smug smile briefly touched Mycroft’s lips. “Kobe filet, with asperagus tips.” He gestured towards the vacant seat again. “Please, join me.”  
  
Lestrade actually debated for a moment.  He had left his team wrapping up the crime scene and there would be paperwork waiting for him, even if Sherlock had immediately fingered the murderer as the victim's neighbor (stalker).  However, he knew from experience that Mycroft would keep him kicking his heels until he was finished with him, despite his objections, so he might as well get something out of it.  Giving in to the inevitable, Lestrade sighed and sat down.

He looked down at an array of cutlery that exceeded the entire contents of his silverware drawer and extracted something that might be a soup spoon (apparently he had guessed wrong; he could feel Mycroft’s wince from across the table). The soup was delicious, the bread he used to sop up the lingering bits was crusty, and whatever wine Mycroft had poured in his glass wasn’t too sweet in his mouth as he washed down the crumbs.   
  
His bowl was whisked away, replaced by a plate of chilled oysters that he stared at blankly.  He had never been interested enough in them to pay the stiff restaurant prices but what the hell, he figured that Mycroft owed him. A peek over at Mycroft showed him the trick to eating them – and they were okay, although he still wouldn’t splash out for them on his own. Another glass of wine washed away the gritty taste remaining in his mouth after he finished the last one.  
  
He perked up considerably as a beautiful steak was set before him, accompanied by a couple of sticks of something green and not cooked nearly long enough (they still crunched and he preferred his veg on the mushy side).  But the steak was perfection, and the red wine that had appeared along with it was the best he’d ever tasted, and probably cost more than the monthly rent on his flat.  He was certain that he was making inappropriate noises that bore no relation to polite dinner conversation but, quite frankly, he didn’t care. Mycroft Holmes had had him abducted _again_ , and if he had wanted a more scintillating dinner partner, he could have his people abduct someone within his usual social circle.  
  
Although…actually, Mycroft didn’t look like he was disappointed with Lestrade's company.  There was a touch of pink on his cheeks, and a sort of glazed look his his eyes as he watched Lestrade, not like his usual razor-sharp stare.  He was clutching his wine glass in one hand and seemed to be having a little trouble breathing normally.  In fact, he was watching Lestrade with the same sort of fascination that his brother had for murdered bodies.   
  
Lestrade looked down at his plate, then at the room around him, absorbing the details of the decor. For the first time, he realized that he was inside a train’s dining car – and that it was moving.  
  
“Are we moving?” he asked Mycroft. He blamed the wine and the 20 hours straight he’d been working for the stupidity of the question.  And that it had taken him an hour to notice.  
  
Mycroft looked down into the glass he was holding, relaxing his death-grip on it. “We are in a train, Inspector.”  Oddly enough, there was no echo of the "you moron" tag that he usually heard when one of the Holmes brothers talked to him.  
  
“Right.  And where are we going, then?”  
  
Mycroft swirled the contents of his glass with a vague gesture of his hand. “Oh, around.”  
  
“Around.” Lestrade blinked and sat back in his chair. (He was not slouching. He was…relaxing.) “You – what? – hired an entire train to drive you _around_ while you eat a prime steak dinner?” He leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin on it. “Dare I ask what you do when you feel like a curry?”  
  
“You can ask…” Mycroft began.  
  
“But if you told me, you’d have to kill me?” Lestrade definitely did not smirk – only Holmeses smirked. His mouth was just… sort of smiling. On its own. He finished the last of the wine in his glass and licked his lips, chasing the taste with his tongue.  
  
And Mycroft Holmes focused his laser-sharp eyes on Lestrade’s lips like he’d just been given a glimpse of the Promised Land. And shifted slightly in his chair.  
  
A light-bulb went off over Lestrade’s head and yeah, he was slow, but he wasn’t a Holmes and it had been a long, long, _long_ day.  And he wasn’t even going to think about how long it had been since someone had looked at him like they were minutes away from playing hockey with his tongue. So it had taken him awhile to get there, but now he had a pretty good idea what page they were on.  And it was a page that he'd been contemplating in his late-night wank fantasies for a very long time.  
  
He slouched back in his chair, tilted his head slightly, and looked over at Mycroft Holmes through his eyelashes. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said in as close to a purr as he could manage at his age, “are you trying to seduce me?”  
  
Mycroft’s eyes darkened and he visibly swallowed. Carefully, he set down his glass, then lifted his chin and met Lestrade’s eyes across the table. “And if I said yes?”  
  
Lestrade’s smile widened. “Then I’d have to ask if this train has a sleeping car as well.”  
  
Mycroft drew in a deep breath, then stood and held out his hand. “Shall we find out?”  
  
Lestrade let himself be pulled out of the chair and then took a step closer, into Mycroft’s personal space. “It better not be one of those single berths,” he warned. “At my age, there’s a lot to be said for comfort.”  
  
Mycroft leaned down and captured Lestrade’s mouth, kissing him with a ruthless abandon that sent most of Lestrade’s blood downward. “By all means, Inspector. Let’s make sure that you are comfortable.”  
  
Lestrade reeled Mycroft in for another kiss, just to prove that the Holmes brothers weren’t the only ones with good ideas. “You’re not going to call me ‘Inspector’ in bed, are you? Because I don’t do kinky until at _least_ the third date.”  
  
Mycroft looked like he was seconds away from hyperventilating.  “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He dragged Lestrade into the next compartment (Lestrade was chuffed to find that the bed was nearly as big as his entire bedroom) and proceeded to prove to Lestrade why trains had such a great reputation for places to fuck.  And later, as he carded his fingers through the ginger hair tickling his nose while basking in the glow, he realized that he still didn’t know where this train was going but he didn’t particularly care. 

 

The End


End file.
